Free Hollywood and Levine by Andrew Bergman Page A

hearing from him, or maybe not. Depends on how fast he closes the books on this case.”
    â€œCase?”
    â€œCould be a murder, you know. Let me level with you, Goldmark. Maybe you’ll do the same for me.”
    He was leaning so far forward he was practically on the floor. “Sure Jack, what?”
    â€œReason I say it could be a murder is that there wasn’t any note and there was a lump on the back of Walter’s head that could have gotten there in any number of ways, none of them delicate, many of them illegal.”
    I had no business telling Goldmark any of this, except that I entertained the logical hunch that a guy whose profession consisted almost entirely of knowing which way the winds were blowing probably knew a great deal more than he was letting on. He drummed his fingers on the desk top.
    â€œMurder,” was all he said.
    â€œNobody believes it, Goldmark, but it’s not an impossibility.”
    â€œBut the cops don’t think so?”
    â€œIf they do, they’re not letting on.” There was also the vague matter of FBI interference, but I saw no reason to go into that. I had been open enough for one day.
    â€œYou think it’s murder, Jack?”
    â€œI don’t think anything. I’m just not counting it out. The fact is that I was only hired by Walter to find out who was causing him trouble. Now that he’s dead, the nature of that trouble becomes a pretty serious matter, especially if it was murder. That’s what I have to figure out.”
    â€œYou think I can help you?” asked the agent.
    â€œI’m positive you can help me.”
    Goldmark was getting very unhappy. A film of sweat glistened on his forehead and he started slapping through his pockets in search of a cigarette. I tossed him my pack and he dropped it on the floor.
    â€œRelax,” I told him.
    â€œYou don’t know what all this has meant to me. Walter’s death….” He shook his head and lit up.
    â€œIt hasn’t been a pillow fight for anyone, Goldmark. Now, just tell me who at Warners was giving Walter a hard time.”
    â€œJohnny Parker,” the agent said bleakly. “He’s a V-P for production at Warners. He rides herd on the writers.”
    â€œDid he have it in for Walter? Personal grudge, anything like that?”
    Goldmark thought it over, his brow furrowed behind a drifting cloud of smoke. The breezy Mr. Hollywood manner had been returned to the stage trunk.
    â€œNo,” he finally said. “I really don’t think so. Fact is, Parker used to socialize with the writers, with Walter and Milt Wohl. Used to kind of run in their circle. Last year or so he’s changed, become more of an executive. Maybe he figured it was bad for his reputation to hang out with writers.”
    â€œWhen did he start making noise about the new contract?”
    â€œWalter tell you about that, or Mrs. Adrian?” he asked guardedly.
    â€œWalter.”
    He nodded. “Couple of weeks ago he started making ridiculous, insulting counteroffers. Before then he had just been stalling. It’s been going on since December.”
    â€œWhy the insulting offers? The cops right about the Red angle, was that it?”
    Goldmark resigned himself to spilling the beans. He exhaled and placed his hands flat down on the desk. “Christ, yes, they’re right. That’s the whole ball of wax, Jack. You saw that bunch of people at Walter’s house last night. They’re terrified, quaking in their pants. Milt Wohl is coming to see me at five, just so I’ll hold his hand and tell him it’s going to be all right.”
    â€œIs that whole bunch Red? Wohl. Arthur, Perillo, the cowboy?”
    â€œCarpenter?” Goldmark shrugged, suddenly cautious. “I don’t know how Red, Jack. Truthfully. I don’t know if they carry cards or what. But they sympathize, at the very least. And if you breathe a word of this